


Prom King

by Acting4Hope



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: (a lil bit) - Freeform, Backstory, Bullying, Crushes, First Dance, First Kiss, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, School Dances, Songfic, also yes i kno fitz's moms name is dendra, griff said deardra first and i like it more, i gave fitzroy a shitty first crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:20:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24764530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acting4Hope/pseuds/Acting4Hope
Summary: I'd be the prom queen if crying was a contestThe Spring Soiree leaves Fitzroy with cold feet.
Relationships: Argo Keene & Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt, Argo Keene/Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt
Comments: 12
Kudos: 115





	Prom King

**Author's Note:**

> i was supposed to write a Different maplekeene thing today, but instead i wrote This,,,, lmao guess something's better than nothing! 
> 
> the whole of this fic is inspired by the song [Prom Dress by mxmtoon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vd0_jUiAY6E) and my snapchat story reminding me i graduated high school two years ago today. i actually had a really nice prom when i went so ghrbghjgrbrghj sorry to give u trauma fitz 
> 
> anyway, i don't have much to say other than that this took 8 hours so Please if u liked it drop a kudos and a comment because i spent my dingdang day on this 
> 
> enjoy!!

“What do you  _ mean _ , yer not goin’ to the Spring Soiree?” Argo asks, staring at the half-elf with disbelief. “I would’ve thought a big dance would be right up your alley?” Fitzroy looks away from his roommates, who watch him from across the table. 

The morning had been going just fine. It was a Saturday, so none of the Thundermen felt inclined to burst out the door. They spent the morning chatting in the main room of their dorm, eating bowls of sugary cereal and sharing random thoughts that came to mind. Then, the Firbolg mentioned the flier he saw for the Spring Soiree and asked the other two what that meant. Argo began to explain the intricacies of a formal dance while Fitzroy stayed unusually silent. The conversation eventually moved to if the Thundermen would be attending as a group or as individuals (and, if as a group, would costumes be required or just coordinating outfits) when Fitzroy announced he wouldn’t be attending. 

“I just don’t see the point of it,” Fitzroy mutters, examining the stitching on his shirt sleeve to avoid facing his friends. “I’ll probably have work to catch up on, anyway. You two may go, if you wish.” 

“But, Fitzroy,” The Firbolg says, “If we are...to go as a cor-per-ate entity, what would we...look like without our chief officer!” 

“ _ And _ , you’d get to spend some time with yer friends!” Argo chimes in, throwing an arm around the Firbolg and pulling him close to prove his point. Fitzroy continues to not face them, which makes Argo drop his arm. “...Don’t you wanna hang out with everybody?” Fitzroy huffs and crosses his arms. 

“I spend enough time with you two  _ already _ , I don’t need some crummy  _ dance _ to--to amplify that!” Fitzroy retorts, his voice harsh and mocking. He immediately regrets his outburst when he sees both his friends frown. They look positively  _ heartbroken _ , and that only serves to make Fitzroy feel worse. “I-I’m  _ sorry _ , I just--” he stands up from the table quickly and dashes to his room, ignoring the shouts from his roommates as he shuts and locks his door. He stands with his back pressed to the door and breathes heavily, but not from any physical strain. 

“Fitz? C’mon, buddy, I’m sorry!” Argo shouts through the door, pounding on it. Fitzroy jumps back, panic welling up in his throat and forcing his mouth shut. Argo knocks for a minute more before stopping. Fitzroy can hear him sigh and mumble something to the Firbolg before walking away. He waits for an excruciating moment until he hears the door to their dorm open and shut. Then, he allows himself to numbly sink into bed and curl into a ball. 

In truth, he used to  _ love  _ dances. The excuse to dress as extravagantly as possible, the lively energy, the dancing, all of it!. He’s trained in classical ballroom for a  _ reason _ , after all. 

But “used to” is the key phrase in that sentence, and as Fitzroy shuts his eyes to rid himself of the world surrounding him, a memory comes to mind. 

\---

His home town held its only dance right before harvesting season. It was a pre-celebration for the farmers and their bountiful crops that were soon to be harvested, as well as an excuse for the kids to run around the town’s largest barn where the dance was held. Every single community member attended this event, dressed in their Sunday best and toting a dish to lay out for the communal potluck table. Kids would chase each other from hay bale to hay bale, while tweens and teenagers danced uncomfortably as their parents watched through their glasses of cider. 

As a kid, Fitzroy  _ loved  _ this dance. His mother would dress him in his most dashing suit--a hand-me-down from one of the older Maplecourt cousins--and he would help her make his father’s famous lasagna (that he was either too tired or not around to make). They would hitch Cherrywine to their wagon and drive into town, Fitzroy bouncing excitedly beside his mother, who watched him lovingly. Then, as soon as the cart came to a halt, Fitzroy would hand the covered lasagna tray to his mother and dash into the barn; eager to play with the other kids from his school. That night was the only night his bullies would leave him alone; not wanting to upset the elders of the community, as well as the gods who watched over their harvest. So Fitzroy could run and play with the others without fear of being teased, and eat with the other kids when the ritual feasting began. 

Then, when the moon would begin to rise and the music would slow, Deardra would find her son and ask: “Might I have this dance, Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt?” And Fitzroy would dance with his mother like all the adults would dance with each other.

And when the song ended, Fitzroy would bow and kiss his mother’s hand, and she would call him her “little prince”. 

As Fitzroy got older, though, things began to change. With his father gone, money was tight around the house. Fitzroy spent most of his free time either working in the fields of their farm or in town working odd jobs for the locals. The kids he spent his days playing with now barely paid attention to him, lost in the intricacies of high school dating. He didn’t really have  _ anyone  _ to call a friend, since he worked so frequently. Most of all, Fitzroy now had a goal in mind for his life--to leave this backwoods town and become a valiant knight--so the dance became less of an anticipation and more of a nuisance. 

The first year he told his mother he wasn’t going, she looked saddened. 

“But why, dear?” Deardra asked, looking away from the roast she was about to put in the oven to look at her son. “I thought you loved going to the harvest dance?” Fitzroy huffs as he sets his work-bag down. 

“That was before everything  _ else _ , Ma,” he explains, putting emphasis on the “else” and gesturing to his bag. His mother’s look changes from one of sadness to deep hurt, and it makes Fitzroy’s insides ache to see. “Besides, I have to keep studying for my entrance exams. Clyde Nite’s has a six-percent acceptance rate, and I’ve been reading a few newsletters that say they view the entrance exam with the most scrutiny--” 

“--Don’t you want to say  _ goodbye _ , though?” Deardra cuts her son off, now fully turning away from their dinner to move towards her son. “You’re about to graduate high school in a year and I’ve never seen you even  _ try  _ to sneak out to visit friends! Aren’t you going to miss your life here?” Fitzroy looks away from his mother’s eyes--pleading and deeply blue, just like his own. He knows his answer would only break his mother’s heart more than it already is. She takes his silence as answer enough and sighs, reaching out to gently take her son’s face in her hands. She carefully pulls his head to look at her and smiles sadly. 

“Oh, my baby, I know this world hasn’t been good to you, yet.” She coos, wiping a stray tear from Fitzroy’s face before he even registers he’s crying. “I wish I could’ve done more for you…” Fitzroy shakes his head.

“You’ve done enough for me already, mother,” he says, voice warbling just a little with his tears. “Let me start doing something for you.” Deardra begins to tear up at this, pulling her son in close and hugging him as tight as she can. 

“My little knight, you’ve done  _ everything  _ for me just by being my son,” she whispers, her voice breaking as she devolves into tears. Fitzroy holds his mother and lets her cry, stubbornly ignoring the tears that fall down his face as well. 

That year, the Maplecourts stayed home. They dressed in their Sunday best and made lasagna together. And when the moon began to rise and the whole world was dark, Deardra put on an old record and asked: “Might I have this dance, Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt?” Only when they danced this time, Fitzroy was big enough to hold properly, and when he bowed to kiss her hand she didn’t need to bend down. 

But he was still her little prince, even when he stopped returning her letters. 

\---

A couple days pass after that conversation and things seem to have gone back to normal. Neither Argo nor the Firbolg question Fitzroy’s abrupt exit, nor do they mention the dance at all. Fitzroy allows himself to forget that morning altogether, though he does get his roommates’ favorite snacks and leaves them by their door as an apology for his rude behavior. The whole school buzzes with excitement, but Fitzroy ignores it in favor of his work. If he can just get through this next week, everything will go back to normal. He’ll have one sad day where he’ll spend it sleeping and eating junk food, and then everyone will stop talking about dances. He can tough it out; he’s just got to avoid people asking if he’ll-- 

“You’re going to the dance, right?” Rainer’s voice startles Fitzroy out his thoughts. He stares at his friend, who watches him with an imploring look. “Well? Are you?” 

“Am I--Am I what?” Fitzroy replies, having completely missed what was said to him. Rainer snickers and sets her pen down; they had been studying together in the library for a good hour or so before Fitzroy got lost in his own head in the middle of one of Rainer’s signature tangents. 

“I  _ said _ , you’re going to the dance, right?” Rainer repeats. Fitzroy stiffens as she continues, “I wanted to know if you wanted to coordinate outfits or anything! Y’know, show off a little bit of that villainous flair~” She does spirit fingers to emphasize, little black sparks dancing out of her fingertips. “They do give an award to the best-dressed villain and hero, you know! Buckminster won Best Hero last year and wouldn’t shut up about it for a  _ month _ , it was so--” 

“-- _ Actually _ , my friend, that won’t be necessary! Because I have no intention of attending!” Fitzroy says quickly, determined to steer the conversation away as quickly as possible. The thought of crowning  _ anything  _ was already pulling more thoughts to the surface, his chest tightening with the weight of them. Rainer looks at her friend with confusion. 

“What? What do you mean, you’re not going?” She asks, eyebrows furrowed. “This is, like,  _ the most _ Fitzroy Maplecourt event the school holds.”

“Yes, well, clearly you do not understand what a ‘Fitzroy Maplecourt event’ is if you believe some silly  _ dance  _ is the epitome.” Fitzroy mutters, twirling his pencil anxiously between his fingers. He can already feel the panic building as he gets cornered into talking about this all over again. Rainer studies Fitzroy for a moment, still looking lost. She seems to be searching for something in his eyes, and that thought frightens the barbarian. He looks down at his book to avoid her penetrating gaze, and after a moment he hears her sigh. 

“I...I don’t know what happened at your old school, but it’s  _ different _ now, Fitz.” She says gently, reaching out to the half-elf. He jerks his hand back before she can touch, and he knows immediately that that’s the wrong move by the way Rainer looks. “I--You have friends here. Friends who care about you, and like you for  _ you _ , and want to  _ support you _ . Maybe I’m completely off-base in my assumptions, and if I am then I’m sorry, but I’m not gonna let you sit here and miss out on all the fun because of what some shitty kids at some shitty knight school did to you.” She pauses, gauging Fitzroy’s reaction, before sighing again and packing up her things. Fitzroy continues to look into his book, ashamed and afraid of what her eyes may see if he faces her again. 

“I gotta get to class, Fitz. I’ll...I’ll see you around.” Rainer states, her voice quiet and kind. Fitzroy doesn’t deserve that kindness--not from her, not from Argo, not from the Firbolg, not from  _ anybody _ . “Talk to me if you need anything, okay?” And then she turns and leaves, her chair's faint whirring the only indication of her exit. Fitzroy waits for a long moment before pressing his face into his hands, palms against his eyes to stop the well of tears about the flow. 

The only sound in the library are the quiet whimpers of Fitzroy Maplecourt as the memory finally resurfaces. 

\---

Clyde Nite’s Night Knight School was renowned for its end of the year gala. Students prepared for the event months ahead of time; asking other students out in elaborate proposals, coordinating outfits with groups of friends, and organizing tables for the dining portion of the event. The gala is also the most well-photographed event of the school for prospective students to see how the staff congratulates its pupils on completing another year of knight training. Fitzroy used to stare at the photos of happy students in well-fitted suits and dream of what he would look like in their place, sharing in the festivities with the new friends he would make upon acceptance. 

After getting to the school and seeing the truth of the matter, however, Fitzroy realized he would never have what the students in the pamphlets touted. 

Firstly, he was under-dressed. His best suit couldn’t even stand up against the cheapest of what the other students wore, and he was mocked mercilessly because of this. Secondly, he had no friends to coordinate with and, thus, no table of friends to sit by at dinner. He was placed at a random table with all the other students who didn’t have enough friends to fill a table, but even then no one treated him with kindness. The food was delicious, but that was probably the only good thing about the event. Once the dance floor opened up, Fitzroy was left to watch as all the other students partied with their friends and beloveds. 

But the worst of the gala had yet to happen.

No, the  _ worst  _ part of the gala had to be the  _ crowning _ . You see, about a month before the gala, an announcement would go out to anyone who wished to battle it out for the Crowned Cavalier--basically the knight’s equivalent to prom king. Since Clyde Nite’s was an all-male school, there was no queen to go along with the nomination (though the Crowned Cavalier’s date was always given a crown and sash of her own to wear for the ceremonial first dance). It was, in Fitzroy’s opinion, like a pissing contest between his fellow students. He found the performative nature of it deplorable and downright damaging to the other nominees’ mental faculties. 

In other words, he so desperately wanted that crown it ate him up inside the first time he saw someone be given it.

But he knew it would never be, just like he knew he would never enjoy his time at Clyde Nite’s. This was simply another rough patch to shoulder through before becoming a knight; an extension of the miserable experience of his childhood. He went to his second gala as miserable as he did the first. 

It was his third (and final) year when things changed. 

This year was probably the lightest of Fitzroy’s years at knight school; not because of any significant lack of workload, but because of Atlus. 

Sir Atlus Fennery IV was a third-year, like Fitzroy, who transferred to Clyde’s from one of the countless branch campuses across Nua. He was tall--about a head or so taller than Fitzroy--with long, ebony black hair he kept in a braid at all times. He was a tiefling, with two elegant horns he kept adorned with gold caps, and his skin was a deep maroon--Fitzroy’s favorite color. 

(A lot of things about Atlus became Fitzroy’s favorite, subconsciously.)

Atlus wasn’t like the other students at Clyde’s; like Fitzroy, he didn’t come from a family of immense wealth and renown. His parents were well-off, for sure, but he was modest about that and admitted to times where his family struggled to make ends meet. He also came from the countryside, like Fitzroy, though he was less ashamed to admit that than the half-elf. More importantly, Atlus was not willing to succumb to the student’s goading and bully Fitzroy. For the entirety of that year, he  _ stood up  _ for Fitzroy, something that not even the professors had done. 

Fitzroy finally had a  _ friend _ ; a friend whom he thought was handsome, charming, well-spoken, strong, sensitive, kind--

His cheeks would get hot at even the thought of Atlus, though it would take a few more years and a lot of thought before he would realize why that was. 

As the gala rolls around, Fitzroy finds himself suddenly excited for the event. Now that he has a friend, maybe they could coordinate outfits or make a table o-or even  _ dance _ together! Atlus remains aloof to Fitzroy’s mounting excitement about the gala, until one day as they’re sparring Atlus asks something strange. 

“Have you ever thought about going for the Crowned Cavalier, Fitzroy?” Atlus drops on Fitzroy during one of their water breaks, sweat staining his white tank top as he pours a little water onto his head. Fitzroy watches this as he takes a drink from his own water bottle, feeling suddenly more parched than two seconds ago. 

“Oh, no. I don’t understand the point of it all, really,” Fitzroy replies, an air of disinterest in his voice. Atlus laughs and pushes Fitzroy playfully. 

“There doesn’t need to be a  _ point _ , Fitzroy. It’s just...a stature thing.” He explains. Fitzroy rolls his eyes, pushing Atlus back. 

“Well, regardless, I don’t think I’d be getting many votes in my favor, anyways. So  _ no _ , Atlus, I’ve never  _ thought  _ of 'going for' it.” Fitzroy snaps back, sounding just a touch hurt under all his bravado. Atlus looks at Fitzroy, concern evident in his hazel eyes, and Fitzroy feels like he would melt under that stare. “I-I think  _ you _ should go for it!” At this, Atlus quirks a brow. “Yeah! C’mon! Give the ol’ high-and-mighties of this school a run for their money! I-I’d vote for you!” Atlus thinks this over for a moment or so before grinning from ear to ear, Fitzroy suddenly feeling thirsty again at the sight. 

“You know what? I think I will!” 

And will he did. Atlus put in the application to join the running as Fitzroy campaigned for his nomination fiercely from the sidelines. He did all manners of convincing and bargaining--trading votes for completed assignments, doing the lackey-work to persuade people, and just all sorts of flier-posting and word-of-mouth convincing. By the time the gala came around, Fitzroy had barely any time left to get himself ready, though Atlus was kind enough to buy him a suit that would coordinate with his own. The way his head swam with thoughts when he put it on was clearly from the overwhelming gratitude he felt for the tiefling's generosity. 

Then, it was time for the gala. 

Fitzroy and Atlus had a table amongst some of Atlus’ other friends (friends who looked at Fitzroy with a snicker and a hushed whisper of what was to come). It was at this table that Fitzroy met Atlus’ date, a nice girl by the name of Adelaide. For some reason, seeing the two interact made Fitzroy’s stomach turn uneasily. He assumed it was from the nerves he felt regarding Atlus’ nomination and continued to eat his dinner. 

The dance floor opened, and for the first time in three years, Fitzroy happily marched out to the middle of it. He tore it up with Atlus by his side, for once not noticing the stares and whispers thrown his way. He felt... _ good _ . Happy. Safe and warm and content to be beside Atlus and simply enjoying himself, enjoying Atlus enjoying himself. He was almost a little sad when the music stopped and Sylvia Nite made her way onto the stage where the bards were, but that was quickly replaced with nervous anticipation as she grabbed the microphone and began to speak. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for joining us for the Nite Gala,” she announced, her voice pleasant and proud as she drew all the students’ attention. “Now, for the moment I’m  _ sure  _ you’ve all been waiting for: the announcement of this year’s esteemed Crowned Cavalier!” The crowd roared in applause, Fitzroy getting especially loud as all the nominees made their way onto the stage. Atlus looked back at Fitzroy and winked before joining his fellow knights-in-training behind Sylvia. 

“Now, this nomination comes at...a bit of a surprise to myself and the awarding council,” Sylvia says, holding out the envelope that contains the name of the winner. “I was not expecting someone so... _ different  _ to win this year, but it ultimately came down to a majority vote that landed this person the victory.” She begins to tear open the envelope as the entire crowd falls into a hush. The bard on drums begins a drumroll that the students follow on their legs, though Fitzroy forgoes it to cross his fingers and pray.

“And now, the winner of the Crowned Cavalier goes to…” Sylvia grabs the cardstock inside and stares at it in confusion, “...Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt?” 

The whole world seems to share in a collective moment of confused silence as the words wash over Fitzroy. He feels every pair of eyes in the room on him all at once, his organs twisting in anxious knots as he stares back up at the stage. He...won? How is that possible? He didn’t even put in a nomination form! Whispers erupt from all around him as Sylvia begins speaking in hushed tones to another one of the faculty members whose run out on stage. 

_ Why did the weirdo get the vote? Who voted for him? Is  _ this  _ the prank they were talking about?  _

The whispers are cacophonous around him as Sylvia Nite returns to the mic and clears her throat. “Ahem, there appears to be an error in our paperwork. I...do not know how Fitzroy’s name got on this card, but the  _ actual  _ winner of the Crowned Cavalier is Sir Atlus Fennery IV!” The crowd erupts in applause and laughter as Atlus steps up to be crowned. Fitzroy doesn’t know if he should clap or not, the last minute leaving him in perpetual fight-or-flight mode. As Adelaide gets her crown and sash, Atlus takes the mic to give the customary speech. 

“I’d like to thank everyone for voting for me! Even given the, uh, technical blunder,” Atlus says, hiding a laugh in a cough that Fitzroy doesn’t pick up on. “But I think we should, uh...we shouldn’t let this slip-up go to waste. Fitzroy, why don’t you come up here?” Fitzroy stiffens again at the address, but is ultimately led up to the stage by a few not-so-gentle hands guiding his body along. He stands uncomfortably next to Atlus, looking to his friend for answers. Atlus slaps a hand on Fitzroy’s shoulder and his whole face feels hot. 

“We, uh, we--and by  _ we  _ I mean the nominated collective--have decided that it isn’t  _ fair  _ to the school for only  _ one person  _ to be acknowledged at the gala,” Atlus goes on to say, pulling Fitzroy increasingly closer to him. “So we created a...a  _ new  _ kind of--heh--award, and Fitzroy will be our first recipient of it! Isn’t that great!?” The crowd of students cheers and claps. For a moment, Fitzroy feels pride swell up in him at the honor of being awarded this new title. “Since the original title of this award is called the  _ Crowned  _ Cavalier, we thought having a name similar would be fitting. So, Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt, I am  _ pleased  _ to award to you--” And suddenly, the warm swell of pride is ripped right from him as Atlus shoves him away. 

Then, he feels cold. Cold and wet and...muddy. 

“The  _ Clowned Cavalier _ !” Atlus finishes with a dramatic flourish as Fitzroy stands, humiliated, covered in horse shit.  _ Literal  _ horse shit. Sylvia Nite gasps in horror and flicks her hand, immediately banishing the horse shit into oblivion and off of Fitzroy, but the memory of it remains. Regardless, the students below cheer and laugh; mocking him with their mirth. Fitzroy looks to Atlus, his eyes pleading to know  _ why _ , what did he  _ do _ , why wasn’t he  _ different _ . But Atlus doesn’t look at him. Atlus looks at his friends--his  _ real  _ friends--and laughs at Fitzroy’s misery. 

Though Atlus is stripped of his title, the student body still considers him the winner. 

And though Fitzroy is stripped of his pride and only friend, the student body still considers him the sinner. 

\---

It’s the night of the Spring Soiree, and Fitzroy is alone. 

Argo and the Firbolg left a while ago, going with Rainer, Zana, Buckminster, Rhodes, and Rolandis. Fitzroy stayed in his room as they departed, not willing to deal with the forlorn looks he’d undoubtedly be cast for not attending. Once they left and the whole room was still, Fitzroy left his room and tried to make the most of his night. 

He ordered in some takeout and enjoyed it with Snippers in the common area, watching some YewTube on his Stone of Farspeech as he ate. Then, he cranked up the tunes and did some tidy work; vacuuming the common room, cleaning the windows, tidying up his own room, etc. With that all out of the way, he tried to study--get some extra hours of work in to stay ahead of the curve. But his mind kept wandering to the dance, thinking about how much fun everyone’s likely having without him. How they’re likely better off without his presence at all. How dumb he was for assuming he had friends because it’s all the same everywhere it’s all the  _ same Fitzroy you don’t have friends it’s all the same everything’s the same everything’s the-- _

He turns his pencil to ash in his clenched fist and decides he’s done enough homework for the night. 

Then, he tries yoga. But yoga involves clearing your mind; and Fitzroy’s mind is like a shower with a clogged drain. 

Then, he tries home exercises. Which actually works for a while, until it works  _ too  _ well and Fitzroy nearly goes into a rage and almost rips the door-frame off his bedroom. 

Next, baking. Difficult to do with only a fantasy microwave and dorm essentials, but he manages to make a mug cake that doesn’t taste like flour and death. Only then, it makes him think about all the food that’s probably at the dance, and suddenly the whole mug is ash in his hands for the second time that night. 

He showers until his skin is pruny, then does skincare until his face feels raw. He tries on new clothes and sorts through old ones, assembling new combinations of outfits while decidedly ignoring his formal pieces. At the end of it, he sits on his bed in a t-shirt and gym shorts, still bored and somehow more frustrated. 

Eventually, he settles for doing what he always does when he’s bored and annoyed; turning on his favorite record and doing his makeup. The first few songs are upbeat and jazzy as Fitzroy starts on his face makeup, color-correcting spots and concealing his dark eyebags. He doesn’t put on foundation, content to keep the few freckles he has shining through. He starts on eyeshadow as an upbeat song ends, slowly transitioning into a sadder tune that Fitzroy, unfortunately, knows by heart. 

_ I'm nearing the end of my fourth year _

_ I feel like I've been lacking, crying too many tears _

_ Everyone seemed to say it was so great _

_ But did I miss out? Was it a huge mistake?  _

He ignores the tears building in his ducts as he works on blending the colors into his crease. How ironic that this song would start playing, on today of all days? He picks up his eyeliner and doubly ignores the voice in the back of his head that tells him he’ll regret this immediately, the song cooing softly in the background as he makes a flawless wing. 

_ I can't help the fact I like to be alone _

_ It might sound kinda sad, but that's just what I seem to know _

_ I tend to handle things usually by myself _

_ And I can't ever seem to try and ask for help  _

Fitzroy completes both eyes, feeling increasingly more and more stupid as he stares at himself in the mirror. He’s in basically his pajamas putting on makeup while listening to a sad song,  _ all  _ of his friends gone and enjoying themselves while he sits here... _ miserable _ . 

“This is  _ stupid _ ,” he mutters, his voice hoarse with tears yet to fall. He puts on lipstick as the chorus comes in: 

_ I'm sitting here, crying in my prom dress _

_ I'd be the prom queen if crying was a contest _

_ Make-up is running down, feelings are all around _

_ How did I get here? I need to know  _

His sadness finally breaks the dam of tears, and he turns away from the mirror before he can watch an hour of work go down the drain over some  _ song _ . He flops onto his bed, curling in on himself as sobs wrack his body, feeling helpless and utterly insignificant. The misery of years of poor experiences have moulded him into a man afraid of second chances; of trying again with new people. He fears the rejection and heartbreak he so readily faced as a young boy that he no longer sticks his neck out like he used to. He’s complacent in his misery, and somehow that makes him feel even more  _ miserable _ . 

“Fucking--Stop it!” He cries out, waving a hand towards his record player. The needle is magically flipped up and off the record, stopping the song abruptly as Fitzroy sobs louder. He hates getting like this-- _ crying  _ like this--because it makes him feel weak. Like all the years of toughing it out and toughening up meant nothing at the end of the day because he’s just as sniveling and weak as he was ten years ago. But he can’t stop the flow of tears now, so he simply clutches his bedsheets and lets himself be carried into self-pity and woe. 

That is, until he hears a soft knock at his door. 

“Fitz?” Argo’s voice calls out, muffled slightly by the door. Fitzroy’s ears perk at the noise and his head shoots up. Oh Fantasy Christ, how long has he been there? How much has he heard? “Fitzroy? You, uh...y’in there, buddy?” 

“ _ Go away _ ,” Fitzroy croaks out, not even trying to mask the amount he’s been crying. Maybe if he sounds pathetic enough, Argo will decide it’s not worth it to pry and go back to his festivities. It’s the best course of action, even if his heart screams in protest. 

“‘M not gonna go away, bud, so y’might as well let me inside,” Argo replies, fiddling with the doorknob to emphasize his point. Fitzroy shakes his head as if Argo can see it and curls back in on himself. 

“Leave me  _ alone _ , Argonaut,” he calls out, “Go back to the party and have your fun. I’m  _ fine _ .” 

“I  _ know  _ yer not fine, Fitzroy, just--” A sigh, then silence. Fitzroy shuts his eyes, thinking he’s won, when he hears the distinct sound of someone fiddling with the doorknob. He looks up just in time to see Argo open the door, a few of his thieves tools in his other hand. Fitzroy gasps and jolts backwards on his bed. 

“D-Did you-- _ Argonaut Keene  _ did you just  _ lockpick  _ my  _ doorknob _ ?!” Fitzroy guffaws, offended and appalled. Argo, for his part, does seem to look a little sheepish about it--though not that much, given he’s still kind of smiling. 

“What did you want me to  _ do _ ?! You wouldn’t let me in, so I let in m’self!” Argo defends, pocketing his thieves tools in his back pocket. Fitzroy glares at the rogue, unamused. “Okay,  _ okay _ , I’m  _ sorry _ for breaking into your room. I just...I dunno…” He rubs the back of his neck nervously, and Fitzroy is suddenly aware of how he looks right now. “You just...yer cryin’...” Fitzroy wipes at his face quickly, attempting to mask what Argo has now blatantly heard and seen. He winces when he sees the black streaks on his hand. 

“I-I don’t know what you are talking about.” Fitzroy retorts, stubbornly ignoring the remaining tears in his eyes. Argo looks at him, one brow quirked, in the quintessential “are you serious” pose. Fitzroy’s face burns with embarrassment, causing him to look away. “M-Maybe a  _ little _ .” 

“It’s okay to cry, Fitzroy,” Argo says, taking a tentative step towards the bed. When Fitzroy makes no move to face him, he slowly sits down on the edge of it, the bed creaking and causing Fitzroy to whip his head around. Argo immediately sticks his hands up to show he means no harm, much like how one would approach a startled animal. Fitzroy huffs and turns away again, ignoring the way he immediately feels comforted by the genasi’s presence. 

“Knights don’t cry,” he mutters under his breath, a common phrase he used to tell himself back at knight school. Argo scoffs and shakes his head. 

“Bull _ shit _ , everyone is allowed to cry!” Argo proclaims, hoping to get some kind of reaction. When he doesn’t, he sighs and tries a different approach. “Besides, you’re not a knight, yer a  _ villain _ . And villains cry  _ plenty _ \--you’ve seen how Rainer gets when she watches movies!” Fitzroy allows a memory of Rainer sobbing into a bucket of popcorn at  _ Finding Nemo  _ float to the surface of his mind and snorts. Argo’s grin grows just a little wider at that. Then, the two lapse into silence as the awkwardness of the encounter finally sets in. Argo nervously coughs into his fist. 

“So, uhhhhhh, y’wanna...talk about it?” Argo tries, gauging how the barbarian might react. Fitzroy immediately shakes his head and Argo nods. “Okay, that’s okay...we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.” 

“I  _ don’t _ ,” Fitzroy emphasizes curtly. Then, he sighs and turns around to face Argo. “I--that was rude, wasn’t it?”

“ _ Well _ ,” Argo starts, his pitch skyrocketing, making Fitzroy snort again. Argo laughs it off. Silence comes between them again as Argo fiddles with the bedsheets. Fitzroy watches, feeling no shortage of awkward air tightening his throat as he desperately scrambles for a different topic. 

“You--” Fitzroy starts, then stops when he realizes he didn’t have a plan for that sentence. “What brings you here? You, uh...dance. You’re supposed to be at a dance.” 

“Yeah, I am, aren’t I?” Argo replies, thinking over his words. “I just...I dunno, got kinda overwhelmed? There’s  _ a lot  _ of people at that dance, and I kinda needed some fresh air after partyin’ so hard.” Fitzroy lets a small smile come to him as he thinks of Argo busting a serious move in the middle of the dance floor. “So I went for a walk, and walkin’ kinda got me thinkin’, and I just...missed ya.” The admittance comes at a surprise to Fitzroy, a blush quickly rising to his cheeks to rival the one slowly spreading on Argo. “I dunno! I thought about how much fun  _ I  _ was havin’, and I thought about  _ you  _ all alone up  _ here _ and thought I...might convince you t’come back with me! I-I wasn’t really thinkin’ it  _ through _ , I just made my way here sorta subconsciously and, like, I-I don’t know what I’m sayin’...” 

“No, no, Argo,” Fitzroy insists, sitting up and placing a hand on Argo’s shoulder. The genasi turns to face him, the closeness of their faces allowing Fitzroy the time to notice the maroon ring right around the pupil of his honey-brown irises. His favorite color. “I-I--I  _ appreciate  _ your concern, but--but I don’t want to go down there. If...If that’s alright with you.” He looks down at the bed in lieu of watching any sort of betrayal or disappointment form in Argo’s eyes, and is startled by the hand that gently guides his head back up. 

“That’s okay, Fitz!” Argo says, genuine and kind. “I wasn’t comin’ up here t’ _ force  _ ya to come back with me. I just...thought you might have some fun with yer friends, but--but that doesn’t mean I don’t--ah,  _ fuck _ , that sounded super manipulative. Tellin’ ya I wasn’t gonna force ya and then  _ immediately  _ saying something that sounds kinda like a guilt-trip.” Argo moves his hand from under Fitzroy’s chin, now turning away, making Fitzroy the one who has to reach out and guide his head back. 

“I understand what you were trying to say, Argo,” Fitzroy assures. “I-I just--I have a very complicated relationship with these types of events, and I’d rather not go through explicit emotional trauma in front of all of my new friends, okay? I...I’m  _ good  _ up here.” He’s startled by his own honesty, probably more so than Argo looks hearing it. It’s rare that Fitzroy allows himself the opportunity to be vulnerable, but he’s starting to realize that good people will make any difficult task a lot easier if you give them the chance to be there. And Fitzroy, already tear-stained and tender, is allowing Argo to be there. 

“I...okay,” Argo says, slowly nodding his head. Fitzroy smiles gratefully, which Argo returns in kind. A strange sort of warmth spreads through Fitzroy, in that moment, and he quickly breaks eye contact to rid himself of it. Which finally leads Fitzroy to notice Argo’s attire, only serving to make the warmth worse. 

Argo is dressed in clothes not too dissimilar from his everyday attire, but it all looks...nicer. His usual white blouse is replaced by one a silky cream color, the sleeves slightly puffed out that then cinch at the cuffs. He’s got it unbuttoned a bit of the way down, revealing a fair amount of his chest (an Argo classic style) as well as the gold chain with a sapphire teardrop pendant he’s wearing around his neck. He’s replaced his jodhpurs with a pair of actual dress pants, a classic black but adorned with a nice belt with a golden buckle. He’s got boots on, as usual, but these look polished and new with a fair amount of heel. Over his shoulder is a navy blue suit jacket that Fitzroy can see is adorned with a few nautical pins, likely from his privateering days. His hair is no longer in its signature ponytail and is instead let loose to cascade over his shoulders, his mustache freshly trimmed to match. On his fingers are an assortment of rings--some he wears everyday, and some that are new to the half-elf. 

“I--You look nice,” Fitzroy says on impulse, causing Argo to stare at him wide-eyed. He immediately panics, face burning with the same intensity as his innards do. “UM! I mean you--I like the ‘fit! It’s fresh and funky! I--You look swag!” 

“I look  _ swag _ ?” Argo repeats incredulously. Fitzroy suddenly turns away from Argo and stares wide-eyed at the wall, feeling even clammier when he hears the genasi burst into laughter. “I-I look sw--Did you just say I  _ look swag _ !?” 

“ _I don’t know what I said_!” Fitzroy screeches, causing Argo to roar with more laughter. “I--I tried to be nice, and my brain did an oopsie, and I called you swag. I don’t _know_ why I say the things I say! I barely know why I say things _at all_!!” Argo falls off the bed, wheezing and coughing as his laughter steals his breath, and Fitzroy finally allows himself to laugh at the stupidity of the moment. 

It serves as a nice breather to the previous awkward tension, as the two laugh out all of their pent-up emotions. Fitzroy begins to cry again, but this time it’s an involuntary reaction to his laughter and so he doesn’t care when his makeup starts to smear. Finally, after a good bit of chortling, both men begin to calm down. Argo gingerly climbs back onto the bed, his limbs weak from laughing, as Fitzroy flops backwards. The two lay side-by-side and stare at the ceiling. The ceiling fan over their heads spins in an endless loop, lulling the two into comfortable silence. Fitzroy realizes he no longer feels that clawing, impenetrable sadness he felt earlier. Laughing with Argo, laying beside Argo-- _ being with  _ Argo--has somehow batted his demons away. The resonant sounds of laughter from his fellow knights-in-training no longer haunt him; the pit in his stomach when thinking about his mother has been filled up. Somehow, just by being  _ him _ , Argo has calmed the rocky shores of his mind. 

“I feel like I should be thanking you,” Fitzroy admits quietly. Argo turns to look at him, confused, and sees Fitzroy still staring at the ceiling. From this angle, he can admire all the things he usually doesn’t get to see; the rosy blush that covers his cheeks when he gets flustered, the delicate flick of his eyelashes (now enhanced with mascara), the dimples that form when he smiles. All things he’s longed to witness this close--pining from afar--but has never allowed himself to break Fitzroy’s personal space to see. 

“Why d’ya say that?” Argo replies, his voice low so as to not ruin the moment. Fitzroy takes in a deep breath and exhales, still smiling at the ceiling. 

“For making me forget,” he explains. “And for just...being here, I guess? It means a lot more than you might realize, Argo…” Argo watches Fitzroy--watches the slow blush creeping across his face, the calm fluttering of his eyelids--and suddenly sits up. Fitzroy stares at him quizzically as he gets off the bed and looks around the room, determined. He spots the record player in the corner of the room and makes a beeline for it, taking the current record off the track and carefully placing it in the open sleeve before searching through Fitzroy’s crate of records for something. Fitzroy is sitting up by this point, turned around and watching the hunched form of Argo sift through his records before making a triumphant noise and carefully unsleeving another record. When he places the needle back down and starts the player, a calming lilt of classical music wafts through the room. Argo stands to full height, putting his suit jacket back on, and turns around to face Fitzroy. In only a few steps, he’s standing in front of him, one arm outstretched. 

“Argo, I--” 

“Dance with me?” Argo asks, almost rushing to get the words out. He’s staring at Fitzroy, his face honest and open, eyes shining with hope. Fitzroy flusters, staring down at the hand in front of him, letting his impulses take control as he gently places his hand in Argo’s. He looks back up in time to see a wide grin spread across Argo’s features as he pulls the barbarian up. 

Their joined hands remain that way as Argo places his free hand on Fitzroy’s hip. Fitzroy places his remaining hand on Argo’s shoulder, allowing the genasi to lead the casual sway they move into. It isn’t as sophisticated as the ballroom dancing Fitzroy learned in knight school, nor is it as stiff as the dance he’d do with his mother. It’s clumsy and awkward and endearing and wonderful all rolled into one: it’s  _ theirs _ . Fitzroy doesn’t feel under-dressed in this moment, though he would normally never be caught dead in just a t-shirt and shorts. Instead he feels...right, being here. Wearing this. Dancing with Argo. 

A lot of things click into place all at once. 

Argo is different from Atlus. While Atlus used his charm to lull Fitzroy into a sense of admiration and naivety, Argo uses his charm to boost Fitzroy up and let him feel seen and understood. Atlus teased Fitzroy because he knew Fitzroy had no one else; Argo teases Fitzroy because he knows he’s not Fitzroy’s only friend. Atlus never cared about Fitzroy; Argo has cared from the  _ start _ . Atlus stared at him with disdain masked behind a cool facade. Looking now, Argo looks at him like he hung the moon and stars just by existing. 

Atlus was his first crush, but Argo? 

Argo’s his first love. 

Fitzroy suddenly feels very weak in the knees. 

“A-Argo, I--” Fitzroy starts, only to stop when Argo looks expectantly at him. Patient, accommodating, kind as always--gods, how did it take him _this long_ to realize? “I, um, I--I think--” Their swaying slows to a halt as Argo awaits the rest of the sentence. Fitzroy suddenly feels panic rise in his throat. What if he’s reading this all wrong? What if Argo’s just being nice and trying to make him feel included? What if he’s imagining all of these signals? What if what if what if-- 

“Can I kiss you?” Argo asks, effectively halting any invasive thoughts from entering Fitzroy’s mind. Argo watches him with no amount of malice or mockery; he’s hopeful, but nervous. Fitzroy flounders with some sort of verbal response before simply nodding. Argo smiles all the way to his eyes. 

Slowly, as if to give Fitzroy enough of an opportunity to change his mind, Argo leans in. Fitzroy shuts his eyes, sweating bullets, before he decides Argo’s taking too long and leans in the rest of the way. They meet messily in the middle, noses pressing up against each other, but Fitzroy feels fireworks go off in his gut. They both tilt their heads just enough to not bonk noses and time stops. Fitzroy’s whole body feels like it’s on fire in the best way, and he moves his hand from Argo’s shoulder to card through his hair. It’s soft and silky, but slightly wet (Fitzroy faintly remembers Argo explaining how it’s always wet, no matter how long he dries it for). Argo lets go of Fitzroy’s hand to gently cup his cheek, relishing in its softness and warmth. The two kiss for a moment unbound by time, joined together in understanding and love. 

Then, the pair return to time and they part to breathe. 

Fitzroy pants and looks at Argo, who does the same. The two stare at each other for a second before laughing and embracing, foreheads pressed together gently. 

The Spring Soiree continues on in the grand hall, unbeknownst to the pair upstairs. And in the privacy of their room, two lovers dance the night away to the tune of their beating hearts. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this or any of my other works, then feel free to let me know on [my tumblr](https://lesbian--susie.tumblr.com/)!!!! I am always open for requests, theories, or just general clownery on there!!! Also comments and kudos are always appreciated <3


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